You

I have things to say to you. But you are not here. So I've just been left to think them, and not say them. You know me, I can't keep quiet. I have to say, not just think, it's almost compulsive.

There's a You-shaped hole in my life that I can't quite seem to fill. I have tried. I have also never been so hurt in my life before.

I let you in. That was my fault. And I let you become important. That's on me as well.

It galls me.

Almost every other day, I miss you. I think of something, I want to call you and tell you about. I eat a piece of food I think you will just love. I read a book that I want to recommend to you.

How is it possible you don't miss me at all? Why is there no Me-shaped hole in your life? Was I so dispensable? So easily replaced or forgotten or discarded?

She seems hurt as well, I don't know that she has the space in her head to be as hurt as I am. She's always been better at cutting off than I am. But she is hurt, this much I know.

Maybe at the back of my head I'm thinking, you will read this. And then at least you will know how I feel. But then at the back of my head I also know that you've stopped reading, stopped caring. So you won't ever know.

It's been nearly two years since things went rocky. And if I'm being honest, they were bad for quite a while before that. We never came back from the time that you abandoned me when she did. She and I came back. You and I never did.

Somewhere I think, I was just a convenience. I loved her, you loved her, so you took me on because I came with the package. Now that I think about it, there was never anything special about you and me, no timeless bond, not according to you at least.

I don't do this, I'm not this girl. I dislike this vulnerability, this flowery, precious writing in whimsical verses. I am coarse and angry, and always protected by my own paranoia, bulwarked against all manner of emotional pain.

And yet this has pierced through all of that. I can not believe I have allowed this to happen. How could I?

I just told someone that this is my attempt to unburden, this touchy feely letter to the internet, so I that I am not some bitter, jaded shrew somewhere down the line.

I am already that, aren't I?

I felt indifferent before, but now I am a mixture of angry and upset. Deeply angry and deeply upset.

I should be used to people going away by now, 'Life sucks and then you die', right? Everybody else left, why should you be any different.

You are different, you were one of very very few, one of my own, my people.

When I left you, for a little while, I told you why, I let you know how much I loved you. You just stopped responding, stopped calling. Do you even know how long it's been since we've spoken?

You just disappeared as if I wasn't even worthy or deserving of a goodbye and a reason.

I don't know what else to say. I know these feelings will subside, will abate, all in given time. And the You-shaped hole will be papered over with other things, with scabs and daily routine. I know that this will one day just be another fact of my life, like my giant feet and my brown eyes. That in itself is a painful fact.

Honestly, I really did not think that it would all end this way. Or end at all.

Udaipur

NOTE: THIS POST WAS WRITTEN MOSTLY IN DECEMBER AND IS ONLY BEING PUT UP NOW DUE TO REASONS OF IDIOCY. I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY FOR THE QUALITY OF WRITING.

Normally, I do not enjoy travelling. My idea of a vacation involves room service and a flat screen television. The larger the pool of humanity I have to encounter, the lesser the amount of fun I can be expected to have. For this reason, I avoid tourist destinations, I avoid holidays in which I have to have a detailed itinerary, with lists of things to do and places to go. When out of town, I like to take a relaxed tour of sights and sounds. My must travel places do not include night life and large monuments. The entire time I spent in London, I did not visit the London Eye once, despite living right across the Thames from it. When I went to Geneva, I did not go to a cheese factory or a ski lodge, I visited the UNHCR and ICRC headquarters. In Edinburgh, I spent most of my time in the National Portrait Gallery and the pub right next to my hostel, and maybe 2 hours at the Edinburgh castle.

For the last 2 months, I have waited for December the 8th to arrive, so my friend AV and I could leave town for the wedding of our colleague and close personal friend,....let's say ST. It was to be my first out of town wedding, my first full Hindu wedding experience, and my first time in Rajasthan. As the title suggests, the wedding took place in Udaipur, Rajasthan, widely considered one of the most beautiful tourist spots in the world. Which is also the reason I was filled with a tiny bit of apprehension. December in India is wedding season, particularly in North India. I was warned in advance that the city would be bursting at the seams with wedding revellers, as well as a surplus of the usual tourist crowd, December also being a holiday month.

By the time the 8th had arrived, my friend AV had fallen quite ill, and had to refrain from going on the trip. Which left me, my bags packed, standing at the Bandra Terminus in Mumbai city, ready to board a train that would deposit in Udaipur at the end of nearly 17 hours. I had been prepared for how cold it would be in Udaipur. So there I stood, at 11 AM on a Thursday at the tiny Udaipur station, waiting to be picked up while wrapped in a scarf and my ratty old pullover. From there, it was onto the festivities.

I'm not sure how many of you have been to a traditional Indian wedding, be it Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Sikh or Parsi. I'm sure weddings in every part of the world are elaborate. Indian weddings, however, are long (often lasting days or even weeks) and filled to the brim with rituals. I come from a non-traditional family and had, until this time, not been exposed to the full array of ceremonies that accompany a Hindu wedding. Let me tell you, it is quite the experience. Every single ceremony has hosts of aunts, uncles, neighbours and friends offering what they believe to be the absolute right advice about how things need to be done. In fact, random passers by, staff at the hall where the wedding is taking place, musicians who are being paid to play at the wedding and the cooks that are catering the event will all also feel absolutely free to jump in and lecture the parents of the bride on the right way to perform a ritual. It's a giant free-for-all.

ST's parents and sister spend the entire wedding weekend rushing from one spot to another, performing duty after duty, taking care of the most minute of details and generally doing their best to not resemble chickens with their heads cut off. Her poor sister had so much to do, in fact, that she looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, which to be fair, was probably true. The bride and the groom, in the meanwhile, spent most of their time smiling broadly at everything that was said to them, in a daze. Everyone felt the need to stop and make some bawdy remark or the other, or make at least one comment on babies.

I know I am making this sound like it's some terrible thing I am trying to describe, when it is actually the opposite. I am merely attempting to paint a picture of the chaos that weddings bring. In the midst of it, you also feel the warmth of family, the tears of not only the parents at their children's joy, but also of the assorted relatives, who all believe that happiness in the family is happiness for themselves. That's one thing that I missed while I lived abroad, the sense of extended family. The day I get married, my uncles and aunts will be as moved as my own mother. Family doesn't stop at Mom and Dad in India, cousins, uncles, grandaunts and nieces are all integral to weddings.

My friend, ST meanwhile, was shockingly calm, like an unwavering flame in a raging storm. She sat quietly through all the ceremonies, the heavy clothing and jewellery weighing her down. She smiled and laughed at the jokes and the slightly absurd rituals she had to perform. She strode confidently through the reception, greeting friends and introducing her husband to them. She played with babies and received blessings from all the elders present. She even took time to enjoy some food. If and when my time ever comes, you can fully expect me to lock myself in a room, refusing to leave it, and demanding that plates of food be pushed under the door.

After all the wedding stuff was done, I still had half a day to kill, which led me to doing a touristy thing, after all. I visited the Udaipur City Palace. The Palace belongs to the royal family of Udaipur, the Mewars, who run it as a museum. From the City Palace, the famed Lake Palace of Udaipur is also visible, although us mere mortals are no longer allowed to stroll through it.

I love museums. They are giant repositories of information. And if it weren't for the hundreds of shoving tourists, the dozens of screaming infants and toddlers being dragged places by their annoying parents and the smilingly aggressive tour guides, I would have enjoyed myself much, much more. I did get to learn a ton of interesting stuff about the city and the royal family, and the history that surrounds the utterly lovely Udaipur.

After that, my travelling companion chose to race off the some famous temple or the other, while I begged off to enjoy myself in my own way, strolling through the bazaars at my own leisure, not really buying anything. From then on, it was back to the train station, and another 17 hour journey. As Mumbai came into view from my window seat on the train, my heart jumped just a little bit at the realization that I had begun to consider the city home. The feeling lasted barely a second, as I jumped off the train and disappeared quickly into the beaming, bustling chaos.

Appy Noo Ear

I am currently in the process of writing another, much longer post about my trip to Udaipur, but since it is the end of the year, I felt I had to write down something quick about what kind of year it has been.

Frankly, I am almost always filled with melancholy at the end of things: movies, years, ages. Surprisingly, I am not sad to see this year go. I don't feel like I have just sat in one place with little movement this year. Which is not to say that it has been the stuff of legend. From afar, it has still been a remarkably quiet and lonely year. For everyone who knows me, I have been more active than many years past.

My passion for both reading and writing has returned in strong form this year. As has my ambition for work. I still loathe the company of human beings, but friends will attest to the fact that I have tried my best to be more social this year.

Change is meant to arrive in increments. Very few things in life change radically. Given that, I think this year has mostly been a step towards something. At least, I hope that it has. Beyond that, I am still unsure. Which is maybe not such a terrible thing for someone like me.

One Year Older, One Year Closer

The 'closer' in the title I am referring to is not 'closer to who I really want to be' or 'closer to who I really should be', but 'closer to death'. I know, I realize, I'm being glass-half-empty girl. I'm only almost 26, I'm somewhat healthy, I have a job. These are things that the majority of the world's population does not have. I know this.

And yet, I can not help but be depressed once more. A part of it is the natural trajectory that this day takes for me. I can never ever be joyful on this day. My birthday is not a happy day, this will never change. The other part of it is the annual reminder of just how old I am, and just how little of what I wanted I have achieved. And a grim admonition of how much closer I am to being a has-been.

No one seems to get it, of course. I just come off like an ungrateful curmudgeon, which I probably am. There is nothing to celebrate though. And I wish everyone would leave me alone to crawl into my bed and pretend just for a day that I do not exist.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Me. Try not to fuck this one up.

Godless

Christopher Hitchens has cancer. He says he will be extremely lucky if he lives another 5 years. Christopher Hitchens, if you did not already know, is a world famous atheist. What about this is newsworthy? Well, for starters, he remains a committed atheist even after his diagnosis, and has resisted all pressure to 'convert', or to begin to 'believe'.

I am an atheist. I have been for more than a decade. In my opinion, there are two ways to argue the idea of a 'god', or for that matter, any other belief in the world. You can argue it logically, or emotionally. When a logical argument meets an emotional one, I don't believe that there is any scope for discussion or discovery. One is based on a dispassionate, rational premise, and the other based in the inexplicable realm of feeling. Really, that's like comparing an apple to an orangutan.

When it comes to logic, the atheists have the victory. Neither religion nor faith can really convince us that their side has any basis in logic, whatsoever. It is when people describe their faith emotionally, that we falter. In what possible way can we counter when someone explains to us, often eloquently, what they feel. How can we argue against a person who describes the joy they feel in prayer, or in the firm knowledge they possess that there is someone or something that is permanently on their side?

In this same way, when I find that people attempt to convince me of the existence of their 'god', I have both the logical and emotional explanation. Emotionally speaking, there is no god. When I am happy, or sad, or unspeakably alone, there is no one in the dark, holding my hand. I feel no presence, or light or joy that others describe. And I am completely and utterly happy with that status quo. My mistakes are my own, my conclusions are my own, my vision is my own and my success is my own. No one handed me anything, and no one guided me. No one, and nothing.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this little piece. Why would Hitchens suddenly start to believe once he has been told that he will die? It infuriates me that religious people consider our atheism merely a stance or a phase, one that will fade when truly terrible news, like impending death, is delivered to us. It's as if they do not believe that our belief system offers us a way to cope with the end of life. I believe, when I die, I will be dead. My mother will cry, my best friend will be lost and my brother will claim all my things for his own. And I will be dead. That will be that. That particular conclusion does not fill me with dread, it does not terrify me, and it will not, in the distant (or perhaps near) future, send me running to the church or the temple in search of 'meaning' when I am faced with my own mortality.

So, here's the thing, I am happy to be a passionate disbeliever, to call people out on the utter nonsense that is the idea of a god. And I really do wish you would let me be.

A Letter To The Editor

This morning, the cover of last month's Spectator magazine was pointed out to me. I found it so offensive that I immediately typed out a strongly worded email to the Editor of the publication. The following is the letter, and the image that provoked it.

Dear Editor,

I must admit, until 15 minutes ago, I had not heard very much about your publication. From my cursory research, which basically involved me checking out your website, you seem to be a respectable publication, with a wide area of coverage.

This is the reason I was appalled at the cover of last month's issue of Spectator. For an article written by Jo Johnson, your cover story, you had the picture of David Cameron as a snake charmer. It's not that we as Indians don't enjoy racist stereotyping by our former colonizers, it's that we think you could do so much better. Why go back to the old snake charmer bit when you can use the 'all Indians work in call centres' bit, or perhaps the 'all Indians are cowherds' bit or maybe even the 'all Indians are computer technicians' bit. Wouldn't your article have been much more attractive to the average buyer of your magazine if Cameron was playing cowherd to the stubborn brown native cow??

I haven't read your article. For all I know, Jo Johnson has cast all Indians as saints who have cracked the meaning to life in the article. What I do know is that hook that you have used to get a consumer to buy your publication is an offensive, racist and colonial stereotype. And you should really be ashamed of yourself for propagating the same views that the British believed entitled your country to enslave and exploit mine for several centuries.

Regards

Turn It Off

Some time back, I read a piece that really resonated with me. Oddly enough, it was on the Huffington Post, written by Josh Radnor. Now, you may know Radnor better as Ted Mosby on How I Met Your Mother, and may therefore be wondering about the odd source of inspiration. It wasn't how he wrote, as much as what he wrote about. He took on a challenge to rid himself of most modern gadgets for a week, and thus ended up cutting 24-7 internet news out of his life. He talks about a lot of other things, but the whole 'no news' aspect of it intrigued me.

I have a challenging and unusual job. As a political analyst, I am required to be constantly aware of the world around me. As a news junkie since age 13, I can not seem to help myself. To give you some perspective on the extent of the problem, I here present some statistics. On an average, I read the following sources of news 'cover-to-cover', every single day. The Hindu, The Washington Post, The New York Times, Time, The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, The NewYorker, The Huffington Post, NDTV 24-7, CNN, BBC and CNN-IBN. Apart from this, I have to check the headlines every half hour or so, lest I start to feel disconnected. I don't even feel that way when I haven't spoken to my mother or best friend in a couple of weeks, but I feel it when I go an hour without the news. I also have 2 separate news rolls that run on my personal computer 24 hours a day that collect news from literally every source in the world, from People magazine to Al-Jazeera.

This feeling of disconnectedness escalates to panic when there's a major news event occurring that I can not update myself on as it happens. Now, for an average person, a major news event is the World Cup Final, or the assassination of a major head of government. For a political analyst, every election, major or minor is a news event, every crisis is a news event, every joint press conference by Ministers of Foreign Affairs is a news event. If I don't know what is happening as it happens, then I feel like the world is rushing past me.

The final factor that contributes to my news addiction is the fact that I am a raging insomniac. This means that I spend many a sleepless night restlessly scouring the internet for editorials and opinion pieces. All in all, my addiction to political news coverage has reached a zenith.

This in itself, constitutes a problem. However, I have a larger worry. There's no such thing as good news or positive coverage. Hardly anybody writes about all the puppies and rainbows in the world. Almost everybody writes about death, destruction, climate change, drugs, prostitution, terrorism, hypocrisy, pettiness, malcontention, addiction, famewhoring, recession, child pornography, fanaticism, anger, misogyny, and other things that fit on that list, which seems to go on forever. In essence, I have surrounded myself with all the bad things in the world. I have seeped my brain in every single thing that can or has or will go wrong. 20 out of 24 hours in a day, I feel like the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Which, I think, leads back to the insomnia and panic.

So, here's the thing. Turn it off. It maybe too late for me, but for the love of your own sanity and ability to fall asleep, turn it off.

One Whole Decade

I have a longer piece planned, that is in a different vein from all that I have thus far written about him, but today, I had to write it down. Today has been terrible, because today, he has been gone ten years, two-fifths of my life, all of my adulthood, one whole decade.

James Taylor wrote:
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again.

He would sing this to me, he had a fantastic voice, good enough to go pro. And I know he genuinely believed it, he called me Susanna, he always thought he would see me again. He never did. I wish I had more of him than pictures and genetics. Most of all, I wish I knew how to stop feeling like this. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wish he was here. I still can't believe it's been ten years, two-fifths of my life, one whole decade.

Anger

Most of the time these days, I firmly believe that I have a handle on my temper. For those of my readers that don't know me personally, I have a famous temper, quick to ignite, and violently explosive in its fury. In my dotage, I believe that I have gotten better at controlling it. In fact, it has been quite a while since I threw a chair at somebody in anger, or slammed a door repeatedly to rid myself of violent energy.

Today is different. I find myself to be so angry, that I'm actually sitting at my desk in quiet, seething, murderous rage. I'm not acting my anger out, and thus expunging it from my system. That can not be good news for anyone, least of all me.

Too many things seem to be slipping out of my control, and I so desperately need a break from my own life. So, here's the thing, I'm hoping I go the entire day without killing anyone, or myself. I really, fervently hope that. That would be a good end to this terrible, terrible, terrible day.

The Parting Glass

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all


But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should go and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Victim's Rights

I watched a piece of news today (on the interwebs, I no longer own a television) about a young girl, 11, who was raped on a train in India. While reporting the news the channel, owned by a prominent Indian newspaper, repeatedly showed the young girl, her face covered with a piece of cloth, being led away by some adults while news cameras chased after her. Let me mention again that this girl was only 11 years old.

This isn't the first time I have witnessed this particular phenomenon. News channels in India, desperate for news to fill their wall-to-wall coverage of every single thing that goes on in India, have no qualms about hounding victims and showing their pictures on TV, or even giving out their name and personal details. Unfortunately, very often in this country, those victims happen to be minors.

How come there is no regulation on who gets to disclose the names of victims, or for that matter criminals, who are under the age of 18? In countries in the west, the US, the UK, France, etc. press services and legitimate news organizations do not, DO NOT, give out the names of any members of a story, if they are under the age of 18. This is done to protect the privacy of the minor child. What is more, in most places in the world, they are legally prohibited from revealing sensitive information about the minor, such as their name and location to prevent any further trouble from befalling them.

Does this not seem like a useful measure for the Indian government to implement to keep rabid journalists with little regard for the future of the child, at bay? It is not the duty of the media to protect the privacy of the child, it is the job of the government and the police. You can not expect the media to be judicious and take into account what is best for a child that has just been raped or assaulted, it is the job of the government to do so.

So, here's the thing, I am not very fond of children, I think that has been repeated ad nauseam on this blog, and as such, can now be counted as fact. However, I am unflinchingly right-wing on the matter of protection for minors. And this seems to me a big and glaring shortcoming on the part of news organizations and the Government of India, which no one seems in any particular hurry to fix.

Dancing Baby Visions

I wonder how you overcome neuroses. Not the kind of neuroses that you see in Ally McBeal or Grey's Anatomy, rich, entitled young people acting up because they believe themselves to be 'outsiders' or 'different'. No, when I say neuroses I'm not thinking about Calista Flockhart's dancing baby visions. When I say neuroses, I am thinking of the deeply entrenched quality of 'fucked-upness' that comes with never ever really having been a whole, happy human being.

Is it merely a condition that you overcome? A disease that you fight? Or is a simply an affect that you put on to make yourself feel more special than your neighbour, to make your pain have greater meaning, to make your sorrow out to have a reason above the sorrows of all others? Is it a mere luxury the wealthy and privileged have, a sense of melancholy that permeates your being, because you do not have to wake up every morning and worry about 'roti, kapda, aur makaan'?

How do you explain to all the people who call you weird and laugh at your "quaint little eccentricities", that you aren't putting on a show for their benefit or for their attention? How do you paint a picture of the world you live in, the people and places that inhabit your memories? And finally, most importantly, is it such a terrible thing to be so completely different from your peers? Not the kind of different that people celebrate, but the kind of different that invites confusion and bemusement from all others, is that kind of different such a terrible thing?

I find that I am so entrenched in my differentness, in my neuroses, that I can not even reach for the things that I seem to want despite myself. My motto has always been:life sucks, then you die. It is a motto that is born from deep consideration and 25 years of experience. It is my truth, life sucks, then you die. So how do I overcome all that baggage, to live comfortably in a world where people can not understand why I am still single, or why I don't drink, or why I can't sleep. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter, inhabiting this world, with its rules and norms on other people's terms. Why is that necessary to a secure life?

Mostly, it seems to me that conformity to other people's version of happiness is the key to 'fitting in', to being 'one with the world', to being 'a whole human being', to being all that malarkey that books and magazines and movies convince you is vital. You must want the husband and the 2.67 children and the house with the dogs and the servants and the cars. You must want all of those things. If it turns out that you don't want all of that, then you are merely adopting a pose to get attention, you are pretending to rebel for the benefit of theatrics. It can NOT possibly be that there is an entire person out there that does not believe these many items to be the key to the universe.

So, here's the thing, my neuroses has gotten in my way, and apparently the way of all the people who interact with me, only to walk away shaking their heads wondering, "Huh?" Maybe I am not the expert on what will make me happy, but maybe, just maybe, the world isn't either.

It's been a while

It has indeed been a while since I have written coherently about my life on this space. Instead, I have taken to posting lyrics as a way of expressing myself. While the lyrics themselves are beautiful, at least according to me, I can't help but feel that I have cheated by using someone else's words as opposed to my own.

The last week has found me bursting with nervous energy, for some wholly unfathomable reason. Music seems to have the power to calm me down, and extract the nervousness from my body.

That is all. I don't know what else. Also, this is post 100. Yay me, right?

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be an error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

You Belong To Me - The 88

I treat it like a high school dance,
Waiting in the wings for my big chance.
But I would only stare at my shoes
You belong to me, I belong to you.

I could tell an antique lie,
Full of all the things I want to hide.
But that would only lead to the truth,
You belong to me, I belong to you

But I'm lazy and I'll pull you down
Where you won't want to be
And I'm tasting what's pouring out of you
What am I supposed to do?

I could play a trick so strange
Cover up my ears and pray for rain.
But that would only give you the blues
You belong to me, I belong to you

Happy New Year

Once again, the day is upon us all, the birth of a new year. I want to say that this year, I found myself. Or i want to say that this year, I lost myself so completely in something or someone that I simply can not account for the passage of time. Sadly, neither statement is true, I can not say either of those things about my 2009. It has been a filler year, the year I turned 25, but did not celebrate. The year i started out with so much promise that was ultimately not fulfilled. I sit here, alone in my room, far from the few people I love, the very very very few, and I pretend I am happy to be away from the hustle and bustle of real life being lived, I pretend I am content to just sit back and watch another year pass me by without having ever been truly joyful. I am not happy, nor am I content. And next year I must do better. I hope I will, for this is the truth, I am not getting any younger.

And as a postscript, this year I said goodbye to one of my true loves. He is gone, but shall never be forgotten.

Quae nocent, saepe docent.

Happy Birthday

You've been gone ten birthdays now. You are missed. And you are loved. Happy Birthday, Dadush.

Her Best Friend

If the movies and TV shows and books are to be believed, then everyone should have a best friend. Everyone should have a 'person'. What I am about to write is an ode to my best friend, my 'person'. Why? Well, because I want to, and because the world seems to be collapsing around us, and we are at least together as it happens, if only to cackle like mad witches at our own misfortune.

It is strange for me, because I don't remember a time before I met my best friend. Not because my life started the day I met her, (really?? who would that be true for?) but because my memory is terrible, absolutely so. So, by the time my memory does seem to start to become more focussed, I was already about 10 or 11, and she was already my best friend. I don't know how that happened. It is likely that I walked into my new school on my first day, and walked out with a best friend for life.

What most movies and TV shows and books do not tell you, is that having a 'person' is not a guarantee to a perfect life. What is sure to happen though, is that the bad times suck a little less and the good times are a little bit fuller, life is all the better for the company. So for 16 years now, we have kept each other, 16 birthdays and new years and Christmases. 16 years of boys who love us and boys who don't, of tree climbing clubs and shared crushes, of birdwatching trips and nature walks. For 16 years we have jumped in rain puddles and made fake margaritas, dancing around the table. For 16 years, we have sat side by side on the most desperate and dark days of our lives, quietly relaying stories of grief that would end most people. And for all these years, we have fought and screamed and made rude jokes about life.

I have no enduring wisdom about best friends, for she is the clever one of us, but I can only tell you one thing, a few things in life are better than making your own family, than choosing the person that you hope will be around forever. And I hope your life is enriched, as mine has been, by being her best friend.

She wrote the following for me, and in the middle of what is a difficult time, it made me smile and tear up just a bit.

Friday, December 04, 2009
her lovely garden


a few days ago, caught in myself, i stumbled into your garden. a year has gone by since i last went there. and i couldn't leave. bladder aching, sleep deprived, i moved backwards through you. caught in reverse. swing forward. re-read.

the cacti and the flowers.

i'm proud. sad. happy. proud still. who are you?

so many colors stain us. above all things you are beautiful.

on bewilderment and pain at the crookedness of life i will say to my girl these things:

from the infinite monkey theorem: " The probability of a monkey exactly typing a complete work such as Shakespeare's Hamlet is so tiny that the chance of it occurring during a period of time of the order of the age of the universe is minuscule, but not zero."

minuscule but not zero. our chances are better than that.

besides, we have our:

eyes (to see with and read!)
mouths (foooooddddd)
limbs (to walk and beat people with)
minds (well some semblance of)

at the end of the day, there's much to be done, a lot of which i know i don't much care for, but some of which i do, and plenty. then there are good times and bad times. there are times when they bleed into one another and you know the whole how feeble is man's power thingummabob... so dont join it to your strength or teach it art and length, my bean.

remember, every morning, we can sing with great abandon: here comes the sun.



i'm happy and grateful that i know you.

it's 2:34 PM

1 comments:

Chelsea Dagger said...

Perhaps it is not enough to just say that I love you, but it is true that I do. And just so I can, I will add that you mean the world to me. Thank you. What's the song, about you being my sunshine?
2:22 PM

The Election Obama

It has been well over a year since Barack Obama was elected President of the United States, and it appears that the new car smell has definitely worn off. His approval numbers are slipping daily and he is no closer to pulling off all that he promised he would, than he was on November 4th, 2008.

I just got through a documentary called By The People that tracks the Obama campaign from before the Iowa Caucus all the way to election night. Although the film makers appear to have had unprecedented access to the candidate and the campaign, as we get closer to election night, we see less of the principal players, the candidate, his family and chief political strategist, and more of the interesting campaign workers who propelled Obama to victory. If you haven't seen it yet, please do watch, it makes for very interesting viewing.

What really struck me was Obama himself. Early on in the film, we see him tracking mid term elections in 2006, checking up on colleagues in the Congress and Senate on whose behalf he has campaigned. He turns to the camera, and with a big smile, declares that he loves elections, even when he is not running. Through the film, we see a relaxed candidate, even when exhausted and sleep deprived. We see someone who obviously thrives on the minutiae of a political campaign, greeting people, preparing and delivering stump speeches, tracking news, making sense out of numerous polls, giving interviews. Senior advisers David Axelrod, David Plouffe, Jon Favreau, Tommy Vietor all appear excited and clear eyed even when the campaign is in trouble, like when Reverend Wright's explosive remarks made their way onto the national stage or when after a monumental victory at Iowa, the candidate failed to win the New Hampshire primary. When the crushing news of his grandmother's death arrives a mere day before the presidential election, Obama seems somber but carries on, delivering a powerful speech in North Carolina that many still remember.

A year later, the least insulting thing that has been said about Obama's performance in the job has been Dick Cheney's characterization of him as 'dithering'. In an extreme attempt to bypass partisan politics, Obama has spent much of the year wringing his hands and spouting meaningless platitudes about the 'American dream' and the 'hardworking average Americans'. He has angered the left for inaction and refusal to take firm stands on crucial issues like abortion and gay marriage, he has angered pro-choice women and prominent gay leaders for the same reasons, he has managed to alienate large numbers of the general populace that were so enchanted with just a year ago due to rising unemployment rates and most amusing of all, he seems to still upset the right wing of America that will simply not let go of the notion that he is a radical terrorist bent on unleashing communism in America. None of his campaign promises have been realized, not the shutting down of Guantanamo Bay, not the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell', not the passage of a historic health care bill, and certainly not the complete reversal of Washington 'politics as usual'.

A once decisive and vigorous candidate now seems conflicted, torn and dare I say, dithering. All of this has led me to the question, is Barack Obama better suited to the politics of elections rather than the politics of governing? The 'Election Obama' was all that an entire country, and with it millions of others from all over the world, aspired to be. He represented their best hopes and wishes. And today, President Obama stands in his stead and he seems as dull and listless as any other inept politician in the world. And all over America, people seem to be wondering the same thing, what the hell happened to 'Election Obama'?

Parent

"I think sometimes that had I known she would not survive her illness, I might have written a different book-less a meditation on the absent parent, more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life."

In his book, "Dreams From My Father", Barack Obama writes this about his mother. And I can empathise. I have spent much of my life contemplating the influence and effect of the absent parent. Perhaps I have not spent nearly enough time on the one who has always been there, who has been the single constant thing in MY life. But then I think, that's not true. My whole life, it would seem, has consisted of me looking back at them that spawned me, and struggling with the immense hold they have had over me, he that wasn't there at all, and she that was always there.

Which is why the last 2 years have felt alien. The looking back has begun to be tempered with the looking forward, which has less to do with them, and more to do with my own possibilities, with what I might do, without the weight of their lives hanging around my already weary shoulders. I must confess, it is not easy, especially for my brother and I. We are caught between being all that's left of a egregiously flawed but brilliant man, and the entirety of hope/dream/aspiration/ life's work of the most courageous woman. Wherever we go, we will always be a sum of these two characters and their own missteps and triumphs. We can not escape that duty as hard as we try.

Numerous

Normally, my posts are pretty well focussed on a single thing. I have a point and I make it in one of many ways. Today, I am going to ramble a bit. First, Climate Change and Water are following me. Just because I have to do something at work does NOT mean that I want to hear about it at traffic stops, at the movies, in plays, in books, on the news, on television shows, from random people on the road, from students who seem to be inspired by vague facts in their textbooks, from Blogger.com that has decided its next Blog Action Day should be about.... wait for it... Climate Change!! Leave me alone!!

Second, I've been thinking of something recently. With regard to a specific relationship in my life. I didn't realize until recently, that I have made one humongous mistake after another in this relationship. All of those mistakes, have been due to one single assumption, one single pretence that both this other person and I have perpetuated now for a few years. The blame falls on me for this though, for I assumed far more than the other did. When you have held onto a belief for a really long time, like a decade or so, then it isn't all that easy to let it go. It's like asking people to refute gravity. Something that has been there for more than half your life is more a fabric of your being that it is a mere conviction. But, people say, the first step to recovery is the admission of your problem. So that is what I am saying here, I have a problem. And I find, that I am closer to letting go than I ever thought was possible.

Small Change

www.smallchange.in

Clicking on the above link will take you to a PIL floated by Vishal Dadlani against a new proposed statue of Chattrapati Shivaji in Bombay costing about 350 crores. Even if you aren't from around here, you should go sign it to prevent the excesses of politicians all over this country. You are allowed to write a short note to put in your two cents. Here is mine.

"Dear Politicians,
Every time you think to yourselves, I think another big fat statue of a dead person will do this country some good, think of the hundreds of million of our country men and women who still live below the poverty line, of the tens of millions of students who are unable to attend school or college and the nearly half a billion women in this country who still receive second class citizen treatment, regardless of what station of society they belong to. And then think to yourself, how big of a JACKASS do I have to be do what I am thinking of doing."

Love Among The Ruins - Robert Browning

I.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

II.
Now,--the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
Twelve abreast.

III.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone--
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV.
Now,--the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks--
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

V.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away--
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.

VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force--
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.

I Want You

I am in love with Kings of Leon. They are my new favourite band. I mean just the lead singer's voice, all that yearning squeezed into every syllable that leaves his gravelly throat. Just that alone. And the lyrics. Sample:

Get back on track, pick me up some bottles of booze
Fickle freshman, probably thinks he's cooler than you
A hay ride ,a fire, everybody's coming around
So go press your skirt, word is there's a new girl in town

I call shotgun, you can play your RnB tunes
The fellowship time, it always comes a little too soon
The land of the creeps, freshened up and babyfaced shame
Put your eyes on me, and I know a place where we can get away

Just say I want you, just 'zactly like I used to
'Cause baby this is only bringing me down

Homeboy's so proud, he finally got the video proof
The night vision shows she was only ducking the truth
It's heavy I know, the black guy with the gift down below
A choke and a gag, she spit up and came back for more

And said I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down
She said I want you
I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down
I said I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down

Legacy

Legacies are a complicated thing to resolve. Actually, that's not always true. The legacy that I am left with is a complicated thing to resolve. It is the most disconcerting feeling to be the only thing left of someone, to be somebody's legacy in this world. My friend writes about half lives and I can't quite relate. He is right, time does have a way with wounds. The world's worst thing that happened to you, doesn't simply disappear in 9 years, but it does fade into your skin, becoming just another part of what makes you, you. Much like your childhood scars that you felt would never ever lessen in the intensity of pain they caused, you can look at this pock mark on your soul and think, almost wistfully, ha! Because you did bear it out, you did survive, you did reach adulthood, and graduate and fall in love and marry and have children of your own. You didn't, as planned, throw yourself off the top of the tallest building you could find. All of that makes you the victor, and the pock mark a mere bystander that only diminished with time.

And yet, I am no closer to the reason why. Why me? Why then? How exactly? I don't know the answer and I am certain I never will. But mostly, I am reconciled to that, it does not frustrate me nearly as much as it used to. What does compound my anger and confusion brings me back to the legacy I am left with. The 15 years that came before the 9 years were not simple straight forward, happy years. They weren't candy and roses and rainbows. They were not even of this world. So I am left with the unresolved question of "How the fuck am I supposed to feel now?"

And therein, lies the rub. How the fuck am I supposed to feel now?

Falling Slowly

I don't know you, but I want you

All the more for that

Words fall through me and always fool me

And I can't react

And games that never amount

To more than they're meant

Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time,

Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice

You make it known

Falling slowly, eyes that know me

And I can't go back

The moods that take me, and erase me

And I'm painted black

Well, you have suffered enough

And warred with yourself

It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time,

Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice

You make it known

Falling slowly, sing your melody

I'll sing along

I've paid the cost too late

Now you're gone

-Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, Once Soundtrack

Viva Iran

I have, with bated breath, been witness to the brouhaha (I do love that word) over the Iranian elections in the last few days. With my own knowledge of the situation, which is admittedly limited, there did not seem to be a scenario that would find the reformist Moussavi victorious. I had wished for his victory, but not hoped for it. A reformist former president who supports broader freedoms for women versus a sitting president who possesses infallible Islamist credentials and enjoys massive popular support in rural Iran. It is not a contest one would enjoy betting on, especially with regard to who would enjoy the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei's favour.

And then, about a fortnight before the election, the tide began to turn, in increments, just a little bit here, and then a little more there. And suddenly, there it was, that elusive thing, hope. Perhaps there was a chance after all that the next president of Iran would not be a Jew-hating, Israel-bashing, Holocaust-denying fundamentalist. The election day came and went, with nary a story of violence or criminal conduct. The Iranians, it would seem, enjoy a civilized and robust exercise of their franchise. Polls were extended for hours as people came out to vote in numbers that startled the government. And then, inevitably, the results. Which is when circumstances began to more closely resemble a Chaplin comedy than real life in the 21st century.

Here we are now, less than week after the results were announced(more than 65% in favour of Ahmadinejad, in case you're interested). Anger, so much a part of my own personal being, is radiating outwards from Iran; from Tehran, where thousands gather in crushing mobs, to London, Paris and New York, where former Iranian nationals watch spellbound as their once-home is now awash in green. Iran has all but been shut down, no one in or out. But that has not stopped the velvet revolution from fervently and vociferously announcing its intentions. They are protesting out in the streets of Tehran today and through the internet, through Facebook and Twitter, even as they are arrested in hordes and beaten and killed in the dozens. And I, a mere voyeur and participant in their collective anguish, am with them, if only in cyber-spirit.

My heart is broken

all over again. C'est la vie, right?

Death and All His Friends

I have been possessed with questions of death in recent times. Honestly, it is that time of the year, and I am naturally drawn to questions of that nature. This year, I feel different. I am not, as I have been in the past, consumed by my own impending demise, be it sooner or later. Instead, I find I am confronting the death of a relationship. Is it harder still for someone you love to die, or is it harder to lose someone who is still very much alive. My experience of both has not offered me clarity on the subject. They who I have loved and lost are just as missed as him that I love and the relationship that no longer is. Both are unfathomable. The only difference is that I chose for one to happen. So maybe then I am not allowed to mourn? If it was indeed my own doing, then can I claim sorrow over the passing? And when is it that I stop mourning? When do I stop wearing black and looking baleful, when the one I have lost is well and alive somewhere?

As usual, I have more questions than answers. There are days I wish that the earth would simply swallow me whole rather than allowing me to suffer in this manner. On other days however, the visceral nature of existence feels more attractive and immediate, and keeps me from myself. I am wishing for the latter.

Belonging

I read something recently, about being from everywhere and nowhere. Although I have moved a few times in my life, much more than, say, my closest friends, I have always been from one place. This seeming semblance of stability aside, I have not had the most conventional of childhoods, or lives. Obviously, I am not going to elaborate, but I do want to say something. Wherever I go, wherever I live, however far I travel, I will always be from one place. I am from Madras. I've lived on the beach and weep when the Super Kings lose; I've stopped at tiny tea shops to buy cigarettes and driven on ECR; I bristle at the very mention of "Madrasis" being code for all South Indians, I love, love, love The Hindu and consider it akin to The Bible; I am quite profane in Tamil and enjoy perhaps just a little too much.

So, here's the thing, I intend to go many more places in my life. I was born in Delhi, lived in Hyderabad, studied in London and now work in Bombay. I will hopefully study further in another country, someday. But in my heart, home will always be one place. I will never feel more comfortable that when i am in Madras.

Poll Fever

I have to admit, I love politics. People often confuse policy and politics, but if you are even slightly informed, you can tell the difference. Like any true-blue worshiper at the altar of political science, I love the policy stuff. It is literally my bread and butter. It is also where real substance lies. In a world filled with the backstabbing and deceit that usually accompanies politics, framers, scholars and public alike, need to wake up and take notice of policy and make a better attempt at understanding it. But, politics? That is where the truly interesting stuff happens.

I spent the better part of two years following and writing about the elections in America. Now when the elections have arrived on my doorstep, I find that I am no less interested. Elections, though, are a different beast in India. It is as much about tenuously wrought coalitions and communalism as it is about free colour televisions. And all of this is held together by headlining politicians, the Modis, Advanis, and Gandhis of the world. Ideologies are flexible, except when they are not; allies are allies, except when they are not and enemies are irrevocably so, except when they are not. That is the nature of politics, and politics plays out best when elections are at hand.

A few short days from now, we should have our new government. But after the polls are done, and the newschannels are finished analysing the results; after the coalitions have been formed and banners of victory have been unfurled, one thing is certain: I will be bereft. Until June, that is, because thats when the Iranian elections start.

On the other side

By all accounts, I have the type of life to be envied. I am 24, healthy, single, living in one of the most fantastic cities in the world. I have a job that I love, that will clear the path for me to get where I want to go. I have an excellent education that, admittedly, took a lot of work. And while I do worry about it, I do not really have to worry about money as much as most people in the world. This has been my life for the last two and a half years. I have been where most people would kill to be.

So why the long face? I am terrified that I am the kind of person who will always look over her shoulder and envy the life that others have, and worry about all the fun I am missing. Take this weekend, for example. Tomorrow, besides being the last day of the week, is also going to be an eventful day at work. On the day after that, I have not one, but two separate invites to hang out with people my own age, have a few drinks, eat good food, listen to some good music and relax in the company of good people. Did I use the word good enough times in that last sentence?

I am, however, obsessed with a trip a whole group of my friends are taking. This isn't the first time this has happened. My friends have taken several trips without me in the last couple of years. So why do I remain obsessed with the lives of those that are so far away from me? I can't quite tell. When I am back home, with these very same friends, I yearn constantly to return to my life at university or work. Maybe something is inherently wrong with me?

I'm just saying.

Get Back

I've been here before. I have spent many an hour wandering these very halls. In fact, this was my home, for I lived here. That is how much time I spent here, I lived here. And now I have returned to this place of my misbegotten youth, and once more, I find, there is no one else here. My hair is shorter and my address has changed but this, this is the same place that I was. And now I have returned.

One Change, Two Change, Three Change, One.

Sometimes, I wonder about life-altering moments. I've had a few in my life, none that I would go into in great detail about. The first of these moments happened when I was 14, and then one more for each of the next 2 years after that. Perhaps that is what you teenage years are for, for life altering moments. Unfortunately, since then, I have made the decisions that have changed my life, they haven't simply happened to me. I made a few really bad decisions in the years between the time that I was 17 till I was about 21. Those years really set me back. I quite firmly believe that I am four years behind my schedule for life now, that I really should be somewhere else. All of these decisions I have made have had to do with my education and my career. Strangely, when it has come to my personal life, I have been content to be a hermit, growing increasingly isolated as I have grown older.

My friends, the few that there are, believe that I am now more open than I have ever been. Publicly, I agree. When I am alone, which is a lot of the time, the truth is more palatable to me. I hate people more today than I have ever before in my life. I have such contempt for their stupidity, for their frailty, for their immorality, for their narccism, for their drunkenness, for their incompetence, for their irrationality than I have ever had in my life. And much more than that, I hate myself most of all. I can not reconcile all the things I would like to have done with the things that I actually ended up doing. Most of all, I hate that I am no fun, and that I can not have fun. I am the worst kind of voyeur. Not only do I sit and observe as life passes me by, but I do not even take pleasure in watching others' lives.

So, here's the thing about life altering moments, maybe they dont alter all that much, after all, and maybe you are where you decided to be.

The Way I Am

THE WAY I AM-By Ingrid Michaelson
If you were falling, then I would catch you
You need a light, I'd find a match

'Cause I love the way you say good morning
And you take me the way I am

If you are chilly, here take my sweater
Your head is aching; I'll make it better

'Cause I love the way you call me baby
And you take me the way I am

I'd buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair
Sew on patches to all you tear

'Cause I love you more than I could ever promise
And you take me the way I am
You take me the way I am
You take me the way I am

The Anatomy of a Speech

"Words. Words when spoken out loud for the sake of performance are music. They have rhythm and pitch and timbre and volume. These are the properties of music and music has the ability to find us and move us and lift us up in ways that literal meaning can't."
Aaron Sorkin, via Jed Bartlet on The West Wing

When the fictional President in the television series, The West Wing, utters these lines, through him, Aaron Sorkin is exhorting all those with a platform and an audience to not only choose their words carefully, but also deliver those words with the oratorical skills due to them. And, of course, I agree with him. Through out history, the men and women that have a mastery over the collective consciousness have always been those that can articulate themselves with force and charisma. More than 60 years after he said it, we can still remember Nehru saying "the light has gone out of our lives, and there is darkness everywhere". More than 40 years after he was killed we are still moved by Martin Luther King saying "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

The greatest speakers of their time were also the most influential, and not by conincidence. Adolf Hitler, John F. Kennedy, Winston Churchill, all men of great force of presence, all great orators, and each of them the most influential of their generation. It has come to pass that Barack Obama will go down in history to be such a man. His address to the Democratic National Convention in 2004 managed to catapult him into the highest office in his country within a matter 4 years. The speech was a masterly retelling of his life, used as a metaphor for the American condition and the American dream. If that speech propelled him into international spotlight, then all his public appearances since then have managed to make him President. Which is why his speech at his inauguration was the most anticipated moment in politics, in recent times.

Now, you may not know from the slaughter of the English language that was perpetrated by W, but Americans have a great tradition of Presidents also being great public speakers, and their inaugurals have provided the platform for some of the greatest speeches of the 20th century. My personal favourite was JFK's speech, which produced that famous line, "ask not what your country can do for you-ask what you can do for your country." Unfortunately for me, and all those watching in earnest, Barack Obama's speech was not pure fiery oratory, chock full of great quotes like the one above. It was, however, a speech for it's time, brilliantly delivered.

With the world's eyes upon him, Obama made a speech that was many things at once. It was a spotlight on America's troubles, it was a forceful rebuke of the previous administration, it was a call to arms for a nation full of people eager to pitch in, and it was a powerful reminder that change had indeed arrived. My favourite part was when he said "As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals." That will probably go down in the history textbooks.

So, here's the thing, I am enamoured of him, and of his speech, and quite possibly his young speechwriter, whose pictures lead me to believe that he is rather attractive, but mostly I am enamoured of the fact that he has brought back into international focus, the power of having the attention of an audience. That, my friends, is truly spectacular.

Goodbye George Bush, It's Been Awful

George Bush has less than a week left in office. Finally, at long last, his reign of sheer incompetence and criminal stupidity has come to an end. I, however, have been likened in the past few weeks to a child who has had her favourite toy taken away, bereft of my favourite pastime. Indeed, railing against the many mistakes of George Bush has become the staple in my life, much like rice or potatoes in the lives of others. I worry sometimes that Barack Obama is much too placid, moderate, calm and unlikely to make the monumental mistakes that one has come to expect from the White House in America. While that may be a good thing for America, and most of the world in general, for those that have made a life out of skewering the American President, it presents a serious issue. I imagine Jon Stewart and Jay Leno sympathise.

In his last days, George Bush has sparked many comments, some close to sympathetic, most not. He has also chosen to launch a farewell tour, like Cher, giving interviews to any idiot that will place a microphone in front of him. In these interviews, we have not seen a contrite or a saddened Bush. We have instead been witness to someone who refuses to acknowledge his failures as such, and who still believes that he will be judged well by history. He comes off as a rather avuncular, genial figure, cracking jokes about the press 'misunderestimating' him.

Around the world, Bush's last days seem closer to Armageddon, or a bad horror movie. Israel has launched a disproportionate offensive against Hamas in Gaza, killing more than a 1000 people, more than a third of those being children. The United States has done little to prevent this, and even abstained from an UNSC vote to condemn the attack. Zimbabwe is in a position where if it imploded and collapsed into the sea, it will be amongst the least tragic things that could happen to that country. The financial world, led by the United States, has all but collapsed. Russia, Iran and Pakistan are all baring their teeth. There is still more than one genocide on in Africa. Al-Qaeda still exists, and has managed to spread its tentacles into Pakistan, while Osama Bin Laden is very much alive, living in relative luxury in a cave somewhere. The once seemingly invulnerable Indian and Chinese economies, rather than picking up the slack for the rest of the world, are strained. South America is still a hotbed for drug and gang activity. Human trafficking is still major business in many parts of the world, and children are still prostitutes.

For all of this, George Bush is at least in part to blame. Which is why I don't think he should be allowed to slink away like a thief at night. I think he should be held responsible, I think he should be made an example of. He can claim incompetence and stupidity only up until a certain point. People should be made to feel the consequences of making the world so much worse. And while we are at it, Dick Cheney should be shot, if it will help Jon Stewart and Jay Leno, we could get the guy who Cheney shot in the ass to do it.

So, here's the thing, jokes apart, the world is a much worse place than it was in the year 2000. While all the problems that we face can not be placed at Dubya's doorstep, many of them can. And no one who has done that much wrong, whether out of sheer idiocy, or out of wilful malice, should be allowed to get away with it. On that note, however, let me say, Goodbye George Bush, it's been awful.

Fear and Loathing

Having never read Hunter Thompson's book (by the way, that's going on my list) I don't really know what he intended by the title, but I find that I am identifying with it. Lately, I am terrified. And I hate myself for it, and I hate being so alone in having to deal with it. I am sure there are some people I could call if I really really wanted to, but I won't because I can't.

If the previous paragraph seems to be vague and rambling, you will have to excuse me, and chalk it up to the aforementioned fear and loathing. I am seriously back in a certain place where I never thought I would be again, and it's not a good place to be. All of a sudden I am sixteen again. So here's the thing, I hated being sixteen the first time around.

Once more, with feeling

2008 is coming to an end and it has, by all accounts, been nothing short of dramatic. Personally, this is certainly true. As a creature that is prone to shy away from much drama of any sort, I must say that I have been witness to and even partaken in the aforementioned. Fact is, if you do what I do, then this year has been the stuff of Greek tragedies. And even if you do not do what I do, you have to have been blind, deaf and dumb all at once to have not found yourself drawn to the TV set, or the newspapers, or to the internet. Whether it was the Mumbai attacks, the US Presidential elections, the crisis in Zimbabwe, Israel-Palestine, the Beijing Olympics, the situation in Sudan, the much awaited exit of George Bush, the Indian cricket team or the earthquake in China, for the news-watcher and the political analyst, it has truly been a landmark year.

On a personal note, I went on several different journeys this year. I moved back home after more than a year in another country, where I learned more things about myself that I had in the previous 22 years of my existence. I went on a beautiful holiday to Geneva and Edinburgh. I completed my Masters. And then I came back to a place that had been so familiar once, and felt so alien all of a sudden. Home was not what I had remembered it to be. By the time I had re-adjusted and re-evaluated my life, I lost a much beloved family member. I didn't really have the time to grieve her before I had to relocate yet again, this time to start my first 'real' job. It was then that I lived through my first terrorist attack, and probably not my last. And yet, my oldest friends are still my closest friends, I am still single and I am still moody and introspective.

So, here's the thing, I am sitting here, looking into the face of yet another new year, and I have more questions than I have ever had before. And sometimes, I think that's a miracle all in itself.

Currently, on shuffle

My top 5 songs for just now, because this is a list that constantly changes and evolves, but those that know me also know that I tend to get obsessive about the songs I like.

Stir it up-Bob Marley
It's fantastically simple, just Marley's voice mispronouncing the word stir, and yet it actually manages to get you. I don't know why, it reminds me of long walks on quiet nights on school camping trips.

Cry Baby-Dukes of DaVille
The song is a mix of funny and sexy, and all R&B, what's not to love.
Sample lyric: "She made me kiss her cousin, I wanted her.. she makes me cry baby" Seriously!

La La-Teairra Mari
This song is from the 2005 Victoria's Secret Show,(I know) and it's really really good!! Listen to it!!!

Maa da Laadla-Dostana
I LOVE this song!! It's funny, the video rocks, and you can spend the whole day dancing to it, as I have. In fact, the whole soundtrack is pretty kickass.

House of Cards-Radiohead
The song haunts you long after you've stopped listening to it, and the sound effects on the track are nothing short of mesmerising. I wake up having had dreams to the song.

Bombay

I have been in Bombay these past many days, I live here now, and work here. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can have prepared me for the sheer terror of living through one of the worst attacks this country has ever seen. There are bigger, more important truths, however, and I am afraid that the fear and panic will erase that bigger picture. Perhaps that was the whole idea to begin with.

This is not India's 9/11 in terms of the scale of tragedy, and maybe it is just a fraction of the symbol that 9/11 was. After all, Bombay has been repeatedly attacked, and it has, miraculously, bounced back each and every time. What could make this India's 9/11 is our response. Are we heading down the same path that the US did after 9/11? Will panic and the haranguing of politicians divide us down the same religious lines again?

Because that is where this is headed. To my cynical mind, there is no doubt that those that will tell you that your Hindu life, or your Muslim life is under attack and you must protect yourself, far outnumber those that will tell you, who really cares what god you pray to? And therein lies the real threat of democracy. People are stupid, and fearful people, far more. A majority of fearful people could put those in power who would go to war with Pakistan.

What is needed is a much more nuanced approach than simply blaming our old favourite enemies, Pakistan, in order to get votes, come the next election. We need to look inward rather than outward, secure our borders, rather than go to war. Create more and better jobs, rather than more commissions to enquire into the petty political differences between this party and that party. We need electricity and running water in every little corner of India. More than anything, we need better education, more education, for each and every kid, that could grow up to be a disenfranchised young person. That is where terrorists are born.

Ideally, what I would like is for politicians and the twin ideas of religion and 'god' taken out of the picture. That is where we must resemble a communist state. Who cares about your god, and your god, and his god and so on? What purpose does it serve? There are times when I truly do not understand why all people don't want the same things. Good jobs, good food, good schools, people who love you and something you enjoy. Or maybe the truth is that they do want those things, but can not achieve them because of their circumstances, their own individual realities and failures. The communist-like state is a mere pipe dream, I know. People would sooner giver up their wives and children, than their religion.

So, here's the thing, we need to create citizens that are eager to better their lives, not more of those that don't really care because nothing could change the way they live. And that can not be achieved by marginalising Muslims, or going to war with Pakistan. Politicians do not control Pakistan, the Army does, and in truth, their reality is much worse than ours. While this unfolds, I wait, not with bated breath, because I have this terrible feeling. I know what is coming.

I here present, a rant.

I can not explain to you, how absolutely awful it is to be responsible for some one else. It is even worse, when they are supposed to be responsible for you, when their every mistake has made you pay with little bits of yourself. When you have had to do this for as long as I have, you suddenly realise one day that you are not a whole person. You are a mere shadow of who you could be. There is a reason that I am who I am. I wouldn't be me if I did not have a full understanding and appreciation for who I am and how I have come to be, but on some days, such as this one, I would give absolutely anything to be whole, to want regular things, to enjoy them. Instead, I am a fraction, and I will always be, because too much of me has been lost attempting to be someone's somebody. Self-loathing is peculiar thing about yourself to be thankful for, and mostly I am, but not tonight.

So here's the thing about my little rant, it is the reason that I like crawling into bed and staying there, far, far, far away from people, who I detest and myself, who I detest even more, but I hear joy cometh in the morning, and I should hold out hope.

The 'Why', of Why the FUCK do you care?

I must confess, I am obsessed with the American Presidential elections. This is ironic, considering the fact that I have never lived in America, and more importantly, I have, from time to time, proclaimed rather loudly, that I can not stand the country, or its people. Knowing this, my good friend asked me recently why I cared enough to read 3 American newspapers daily.

My answer was that my interest was academic. I have been following and writing about this particular election for last year. However, there is more to this than just my interest in continuity. I am fascinated by how an entire country votes, especially this country that is now in shambles, and this same country that managed to elect George Bush, twice. In America, the election is a microcosm populated by candidates, aides, pundits and reporters. In India, elections are decided by television sets. Our politics are no less political than theirs, and yet, somehow, our election is much more...I think transparent.

The motivation of the American people to vote for a specific candidate worries and fascinates me all at the same time. There are candidates I loathe, and some I respect grudgingly, but that pales in comparison to my fear that a majority of voters will put into power a man and woman so woefully incompetent, to run a country that is repulsively, to me, the most powerful in the world. So what do I do? I read every article published by the New York Times about the election, I read tracking polls, and reports on them, I watch YouTube incessantly, I read about the debates, after watching the debates.

All of this, of course, comes to naught. I am not now, nor will I ever be an American. More importantly, it would not be physically possible for me to care less for them, except if they all go in November and vote John McCain and Sarah Palin into office. Enough said.

Endure and Shut Up

I am at times astounded at the lives that women lead. If you're a woman, of any shape, size or colour, then you have been both verbally and physically assaulted at some point since the time you magically sprouted breasts. A truly unlucky percentage have had the displeasure since even before that blessed event. If you live in a major Indian city, then you will have experienced these joys a few times over.

The first time any of this happens, you are invariably still rather young, and therefore rather upset. However, as time goes on, and you realize that you are not alone, that this has happened to all the women that came before, and all of those that stand beside you, then you start to get inured. You don't feel the pain as much, you almost start to believe that this is what your body is meant to inspire.

How are girls supposed to make it? From every angle, life tells you that things aren't going to work out. You're too skinny, too fat, too tall, too short, you eat too much, you don't eat enough, you're clothes are too conservative, you're clothes are too slutty, you act too much like a guy, you act too much like a girl. Every part of you is analyzed and out loud at that. Every message in the world, from the television to the newspapers tells that you need to live up to this impossible standard. You need to be stunningly beautiful, but act like you're not, so that men don't feel intimidated by you. You need to be Mother Teresa, so they can feel okay enough to take you home to mom, but dirty enough to go down on them whenever their dear little hearts might desire. You need to love them and be devoted to them with all of your heart, but not be too clingy. And you need to forgive them each time they cheat on you, or lie to you or disappoint you. Of course, you should be able to cook, clean, throw parties and also have a full time job, so they can show you off.

All the movies made are about men, how they are being forced to grow up by nagging women and take care of their responsibilities, anyone who has seen Knocked Up and the countless other movies like it will know what I am talking about. The world teaches women to endure and shut up. Our problems are not big enough, our lives not difficult enough.

So, here's the thing about being a woman, there are a few joys attached to it, and they are far between. You live the best way you know how, but, know this, it is not easy.

Read, yon wee bastards

Aaron Sorkin Conjures a Meeting Between Obama and Bartlet:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/21/opinion/21dowd-sorkin.html

Read, read, read, yon wee bastards.

Guilty pleasures, or just plain guilt

Fun, as a concept, is fairly straightforward. I get it. Enjoyment, merriment, laughter, and other such comparables. Except, the having of this fun provides a unique challenge. What if your brain is just wired differently from others? What if, the translation from the concept to actual actions has always eluded you? Then?

Why

I feel like I should get these things off my chest. Only, I don't know how. And there really isn't anybody I can tell, except maybe perfect strangers. Anybody volunteering? It's really not anything, it's the stupidest thing ever, and it is absolutely not a big deal, but the fact that it hasn't been said out loud, and then dismissed as perfectly ludicrous, is just weighing down on me and multiplying the effect. And on that note, I should retire.

So here's the thing. Here's the fucking thing, it needs to be said, and then thrown out. I just need this to not be a thing, you know?

Music for the soul, and a book.

The thing that I keep thinking of when I watch good television is the soundtrack. It gets me thinking about all those moments in my life that I remember because of a song, the soundtrack of my life, as it were, although, less cliche, I hope.

Because I can remember the song from the first time I liked a boy, one from when he said no, one from a rainy day, one from when I nearly ran someone over with my cycle (!), from a slow London night, one from when I couldn't stop crying or get out of bed, one from when I felt like couldn't breathe because I was in love, or something. All this and I can't even remember the names of the people I went to college with. But these songs I remember, they act like triggers, transporting me back to the very moment that I felt what I did, I can taste, and smell and feel the same as that moment. So, the sound track of my life, not so cliche, after all.

And a book, because what else am I going to do, right?

Aimless

I'm feeling.... aimless. I wish I wasn't. I wish that I bounded out of bed every day with single-minded purpose. But for now, aimless, directionless, rudderless, and so on, and so on. There's someone I need to tell something to, (bad sentence construction, I know) but I haven't, or is that two someones, and the same something, or maybe one someone, and two somethings? Like I said at the beginning, aimless man, aimless. I think this might all feel better if I was smoking a joint on the side of the road, or on a beach somewhere. I definitely think it would sound better. Ha!

In some weird way

I can hear noises, people talking. Everything is spoken in a language not heard often by me. When I hear myself speak, the language sounds alien, the person feels like another. This is a part of my heritage, and I perhaps I should feel more of a kinship with it, and all I can think is when is my train? I am playing the part of an observer more than ever in my life. All these people, here assembled, for this day, for this person, no longer among us. Each of them made up of different ambitions, different agendas, but also real sorrow. It’s hard to reconcile the almost cartoonish versions of them that have presented to me in stories, with the real people, who seem so much more. Not to say that I have new found affection for them, or love or respect. These are people I did not think I would ever have to know in my life. And yet, here I am, wondering what it must be like to them, and to live their lives.

Secret Secrets

Ok, let me preface this by saying, my friend is a jackass! Alright, moving on.

I am not a secret person really, very few things about myself embarass me. Still, here goes...

1) When I am all by myself, I like to daydream. I make up situations in my head and let my mind play them out. A therapist might call it an escape mechanism, I call it a good way to spend the time I am on the tube.

2) I can't sleep alone in the dark. I am 23 and I still need a light on somewhere in the house if I am alone at night. Sad, I know.

3) Up until recently, I have had a crush on every single boy that my best friend has.

4) I hate radishes, absolutely loathe them. I can eat any other vegetable but them.

5) I've read the first 20 pages of Great Expectations over 10 times, I've never ever read the whole book.

6) I've never been in love. Except for once, almost.

7) Sometimes, I DON'T think marriage is a meaningless institution created to perpetuate the myths of monogamy and happy families.

8) I am actually a very kind person. I never refuse a request for help.

9) Girls find me very attractive, which is truly unhelpful.

10) Till I was 15 or so, when I cried, there would be no tears. Seriously.

Ok, now I am supposed to tag somebody, so I tag Asher Jay.

The Nature of Loss

To those of you that know me, the title is not really a mystery. I recently lost somebody that I have loved my whole entire life, and she isn't the only one that is lost. I find that I am some how stuck mid-river without a paddle, and life seems to make even less sense than usual. I feel like crying is futile, and agonizing over the what ifs and if onlys is of no avail. And yet, my mind is flooded with questions and memories and anger, and even guilt, and many times, it is all I can do to keep it together. Because, as much as this hurts me, it hurts some people even more, and these are people that I love.

I wish I had more profound realizations about death, some epiphany that has come in the middle of the night, causing me to leap out of my bed to furiously pound away at my keyboard, in hopes of getting it all down before it vanishes. Alas, that is not to be so. I have no answers, only more questions. And those, it would seem are endless.

The magic of unrequited love

I know, the title seems improbable, but let this come from one who has been on the losing end of the above many a time, there is some magic to it. What is the magic, you ask? Well, it is eternal, that's what.

Unrequited love is never returned, and therefore unfulfilled. It remains in our minds, long after it has left our hearts, as a shining promise of what could have been but never was. It was never reciprocated, if indeed it was even spoken out loud. And so, it remains eternal, perfect as the day it struck you out of the blue, and perfectly painful as the day you knew that it would never be realised.

What is my "so, here's the thing" point here? I'm not even sure, that is the point.

For Mims

My world is a little smaller. There are fewer experiences than there were before, but to complain incessantly is complacence and ingratitude that even I can not muster. Where I am and how I am are a product of who I am and what I have done thus far. So, the conclusion may be drawn, that perhaps, all this is my own fault.

Philosophical musings aside, I find that when I can not look beyond my own problems, I lost sight of a much larger truth. Life basically sucks. No one ever told me that life would be this endless array of lilies in a garden surrounded by butterflies and candy. If anything, I have been warned about how unexpected things always end up being. You have to work at anything that is even vaguely worthwhile.

So here's the thing about complaining, and being a malcontent, the unhappiest at the end of that particular road, is you.

For Mims

To be seen

The thing about returning to familiarity, is that it isn't all that you imagined in your head. In your head, the colours of 'old' world are bright, and shiny. And everybody loves you. The truth, however, is a different animal. The trouble with going back, is that you regress into all those things that made you run out in an attempt to change your life in the first place.

I can't decide what I hate more, missing how things used to be, or returning to that place and time, where you are unimportant, where you are never seen. Everybody looks through you. You are simply the means to a more attractive end.

I have touched the sun, even if only for an all too brief moment, and I can not go back. I can not go back to being an ordinary creature that lays in wait, in the vain hope that others will see me, finally. Again now, I find myself desperate to escape. I am searching for exit signs. And, rest assured, when I do find one, I will be gone again. To a land where I am seen.

This Year's Love-Part Trois

Yes, I continue on in what must seem like an interminable rant to the half a person out there who is reading my blog. My life can not possibly be so interesting so as to inspire three whole posts on my year, and yet here we are, part three.

I thought the third of the series should be little less intense and personal than the first two, so here's a series of highlights and firsts I experienced this year.

My first international flight, well my first and second.

My first pub discussion on politics, and my second, and third, and fourth...

My first and only sip of Red Bull.

My first and last cup of Turkish Coffee.

My numerous walks along the river Thames.

The British Library.

My brief visit to Leeds.

The Smoke.

The Maybe-Lesbian Triplets of CAC.

Oxford Circus, which is both a gift and a curse.

Virgin Radio.

CAMDEN!

I know there are more, but that's all for now. My brain seems to be slowly falling asleep. If only I could drink caffeine without staying awake for weeks on end...sigh.

This Year's Love - Part Deux

Ok, so I decided to make this a two-parter. Maybe it'll evolve into more, I don't know, all I do know is that I have more to say about this year.

So, here's the thing about change. Sometimes, you just don't want it. If you were somehow comfortable with the status quo, then you have to be dragged, kicking and screaming into what is new. Without giving away too much, let me just say, I was comfortable, I mean really, really comfortable, to the point, that I was also completely oblivious. If you get used to being miserable, then misery, can start to seem like fun. It's your shtick. Your life sucks. You base all your conversations on that, you base all your decisions on that, and you base all your relationships on that. This, to the point that normal people just can't be around you, and don't know how to be friends with you. And before you know it, you turn around one day, to find yourself crying on your own shoulder, because everybody else has just left. And then, maybe change isn't such a bad idea.

And it can happen fast too, a couple of steps in the right direction, and then suddenly, your phone rings. That is how change entered my life, over the phone. And even though I jumped eagerly at the chance to make my life different, I didn't always enjoy what had to be done. Sitting here on my bed at the end of this year though, I have to promise you, it's worth it. That first time you truly enjoy your new self, that first little feeling in the pit of your stomach that let's you know that this is completely new, that feeling is worth all the agony, and the kicking and the screaming.

My life isn't completely figured out yet, there are still aspirations that need to be reconciled with pragmatism, and responsibilities. One thing, however, is for certain, change isn't my enemy. There is no point in finding comfort is the old and familiar if it makes you unhappy. And there is always a chance that your decision to change your life could end up, well, sucking. But there is always a chance that it could turn out absolutely fantastic. That, my friends, is a chance worth taking.

This Year's Love

The year is almost over. And I can barely believe that I made it through intact. I can honestly say that this has been one of the very best years of my life. It's strange how you wake up one morning and realise you are not the same person you were just a year ago. In fact I am almost entirely another person. Well, almost. The best thing about moving away, is that suddenly, your old life has a bright shiny spotlight on it. You spend the first few weeks romanticising the life, and the people in it. And you miss them terribly. And then, if you are smart, and motivated, you find that feeling disappearing ever so slowly. You make new friends, you see things you have never seen before, and you find out things about yourself that you didn't even know existed.

The worst thing about the spotlight is that you start to see exactly how inadequate your old life was, and the true colours of the people you left behind. There isn't a protective buffer between you and reality, it is what it is. And while this is painful at first, to realise your friends aren't your friends, it is also refreshing to receive that push forward to start changing the way you live your life.

And if all this sounds just a little too sentimental to you, then let me remind you that the year is almost up, and we are all allowed a little time for self reflection.

Before I sign off, let me just say, to you my reader, thank you for spending a tiny amount of your life here on this crazy, silly, pointless blog of mine.